Illusionary Dawn
by Abigail Black
Summary: In the wake of Batman's betrayal, Gotham closes rank against its new enemy. But when a wave of villainy brings the city to its knees, what can convince a hunted man to take off his mask? Post-DK


**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine.

**1**

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The briefcase was sleek and black and slid deliciously across the table, opening with a satisfyingly professional click to reveal relevant files and a favorite pen, a cell phone and an apple. Red apple, of course.

"Did you dream last night?"

No answer. Not that one had been expected. Neither of them were in it for the answers, after all. Not when questions provided so much fun.

"Tell me about your mother."

A quick twitch of lips this time – almost a smile. "I taught you that one."

"Hardly," she scoffed. "I've been in the game a long time."

"Sixteen months."

"Still counting? I think I should make a note of that." Harleen Quinzel wrote with flourish, flicking her wrist oddly at the end of each word to give it a lilting, distinctive edge, curling e's around t's and dotting each i with a large, wet ink blot. She could tell it drove her patient crazy. She rather enjoyed that.

"Skipping chapters in your textbook again, Harleen? You really should have a proximal diagnosis by now. Even I can tell exactly what is wrong with me." He paused briefly, frowning thoughtfully. "Would you like me to tell you? Or would that take all the fun out of this little charade?"

"If you don't stop doing my work for me I'll have to report you for something you didn't do."

He raised an eyebrow. "I feel threatened. Take me back to my room."

Harleen rolled her eyes, "Stop it. I have serious questions to ask you."

"That's fine, because I have my own to ask back."

She surveyed the man across the table, behind the metal grid that separated them for her own safety. If she focused her eyes on the grid it broke his face up into parts - an eye, an ear, a flick of hair, a segment of nose – like it had been cut up and transformed into a jigsaw puzzle. It made it easier to look at him like this. Parts of the man rather than the whole, real thing. She wondered if he found the same thing for her.

Probably not. She wasn't even sure if Jonathan Crane could ever be afraid of anything.

Not that she was afraid of him anymore. Crane days were a thing of the past, something she could joke about with the interns, as if she hadn't spent every Thursday hiding in the tiny bathroom just off the office she shared with Dr Nelson, terrified to come out until he was gone.

She wasn't quite sure what kind of psychiatrist this made her. A bad one, perhaps?

Currently, though, the world had been turned upside down. She could walk through Arkham and know that the only way she could see Crane would be if she deliberately sought him out. She could stalk him through hallways, watch him through the plexiglass window in his cell, observe his every move and decide exactly what sort of insane he was. This was power. And it belonged to her.

Harleen put down her pen, leaning back in her chair. "You know," she began conversationally, "I have this dream…"

"Are you falling? Those were always my favorites, always provoked such a strong fear response," Crane looked almost wistful as he said this.

"Close," she refused to let him gain control over the topic, "but instead I'm standing in the middle of a crowd, at a party. Everyone's laughing and smiling and drinking champagne. I've got cocktail shrimp in my hand and it's fabulous, I keep insisting they all try it. They don't. I start choking and at first I think that I'll be okay because there are so many people to help me, but then I realize there's nothing they can do. There's nothing anyone can do. I'm choking to death on shrimp cocktail and dying in front of a thousand people. I run and run and I've never been more terrified in my whole life."

He offered a rue smile. "In my professional opinion, _doctor_, eventually you'll simply tear yourself apart. In fact, I'm surprised you're not already in here with me."

"A crazy joke. How original," she kept her voice dry, but couldn't control the way her hand trembled as she reached for her briefcase.

"Going already? I thought we were making some real progress."

The way he still used his doctor voice on her, like she was the one who had to return to a padded room, it drove her… not _crazy_, because she wasn't crazy, but something close.

"I'm going to recommend your dosage be doubled for the next few weeks," she clipped the briefcase closed, tucking the pen behind her ear, avoiding looking back at him, "then I'm going to cut you off."

"And to think I objected when they chose you for that internship." She could hear something hard in his voice, something that twisted with cold, blank amusement. She amused him. She was a joke.

Harleen fought back the urge to lash out. She hated every inch of Crane. He could sit there and stretch his face into a smile, nothing about him vague or unfocused like it should have been.

"But do you know what's really on my mind, Dr Quinzel?" he called her back as she turned to leave.

Unable to resist she took the bait. "What's that?"

"Hyperactivity, uncontrollable rage… the more you try to hide it, the clearer it gets. So I'm wondering, how long before you completely lose it?"

Something cracked. "Don't you ever, ever say that!" she spat venomously, "Don't even think it! You think I'm crazy? I'm a goddamn doctor! What are you? You're nothing! You're crazy!"

When Crane spoke next his voice was barely above a whisper. "We're all waiting for you, doctor, don't let us down."

The briefcase slipped slightly. She gripped it a little tighter, squaring her shoulders, trying to focus on how her heels sounded against the tiles. She wouldn't think. She would be empty. It was common for patients to attempt getting a rise out of their psychiatrists, which was exactly what Crane had been trying to do. It hadn't worked. She was calm, in control. She was sane. Didn't being on this side of the asylum prove that?

"Dr Quinzel?"

She found a polite smile for the intern. "Yes?"

A small part of her hated the way they weren't intimidated the way she had been back on Crane days. It was quickly stamped down.

"Your patients have been switched around. Dr Nelson said to give you this," he held out a new manila folder.

Harleen sighed, flipping it open. What was inside shocked her.

"Dr Quinzel?"

Her eyes scanned down the page in her hand. The report was short, the bare bones of a case study, a shiny new patient for the doctors to play with. Usually the higher up the Arkham rank you rose the more interesting your patients became. New doctors like her got the leftovers. The only exception on her plate was Crane, a special circumstance brought about by overcrowding and passed down to the first request that came through. But this…

This was new.

"Dr Quinzel?"

"Huh?" she looked up quickly, startled. "Oh, yes… yes, thank you."

"Dr Nelson needs the Petrelli file."

"Right," she balanced her briefcase precariously against the wall as she rummaged through it, at last pulling out the right folder. She passed it to the intern without a word, mind already racing with this new development.

If she was getting these kinds of patients, well then, she must be moving up the rank. Maybe all her patience with Crane was finally paying off.

With a smile she tucked the folder under her arm, continuing down the corridor. Crane's words were already fading, losing their sting. If she were crazy they wouldn't be giving her such a new, dangerous patient. If she were crazy she wouldn't have been able to smile at the intern, wouldn't be able to handle her patients. She didn't use fear or drugs to keep them quiet, she didn't consider them guinea pigs in the wider experiment that was Arkham. No, she was too balanced to ever be declared insane.

A grin replaced the smile. Today was a good day. A very good day. A red apple kind of day. And what better way to celebrate then a session with her very new, very exclusive, very famous patient? Her fingers absentmindedly traced the label stuck to the front of the folder, sliding over long rounded curves, jolting past quick harsh lines.

Arkham Asylum's latest guest, and her job to give him a welcome that would crack open his mind and spill its contents all over her report. The name that was on everyone's lips;

The Joker.

* * *

**AN:** Okay, I know I have two unfinished fics already, but after seeing The Dark Knight I can't get it out of my head. This is, like, my experiment with the Nolan-verse, trying to make some other characters fit. So please, please _review_ and tell me what you think! I'm super curious to know. I've never written Batman before.


End file.
